The Christmas Women

by Elyse Douglas

  Trudie gave Mary Ann a sideways glance. “Can you leave us alone, Mary Ann?”

  Mary Ann ducked away and started for the back office.

  Trudie motioned with her head for Jon to step into a quiet corner. He did so.

  She lowered her voice, but there was strength and force in it. “Jon, you can’t leave now.”

  “Do you want this show to be about Mrs. Childs or about me? Because I can tell you, before the show opens on Christmas Eve, it’s all going to be about me. I didn’t come here for that and I don’t want that.”

  “I don’t care. Mrs. Childs won’t care. She’ll just be thrilled to see us all up on that stage again. Then it will be about her, and only about her.”

  He started to protest, but Trudie threw up a hand to stop him. “I don’t want to hear it. You made a commitment to us, to the community, to the alumni and, most importantly, to Mrs. Childs.”

  Jon canted his head to the right, his eyes large and cold. “That was before all this shit happened. Before the enemy charged.”

  “All this shit happened because you got into a stupid bar fight with some loser! Now it’s all over the internet and YouTube and every crazy kid with a cell phone is coming to town. Stop thinking of yourself for once in your life and think of somebody else. Do something—one damned thing nice for somebody else for a change! Sacrifice a little of your precious fragile ego for Mrs. Childs. She might be dying, Jon! Dying! Okay? So you have to give a few stupid interviews. So what! Big Deal! Suck it up! Stop being a little whiny kid who wants to take his trucks and cars home because the world doesn’t play the way he wants it to. Well, guess what? That’s just the way it is. So deal with it!”

  Jon stared at her, his eyes strangely beguiling. He searched her face, as if seeing it for the first time. Suddenly, a secret was revealed to him. His eyes opened wide in recognition. He grabbed Trudie’s shoulders, pulled her forward and kissed her. Trudie wrenched away, furious.

  “Stop that! Stop it!”

  Jon stared, transfixed. “Trudie Parks, if you had shown that much passion, that much power, that much authenticity, twenty years ago when you were playing Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, you would have wound up in Hollywood. That was outstanding! That was fantastic. You were... riveting!” He pulled her forward and kissed her again.

  She twisted away, swung and slapped him across the face. The loud smack seemed to echo.

  “Ouch,” he said, his hand touching his cheek. “That hurt!”

  “You are a selfish bastard, Jon Ketch!”

  “And you, Trudie Parks, just gave a magnificent performance! The performance of a lifetime!”

  “That was not a performance, Jon! I wasn’t acting. Don’t you know the difference?”

  Jon shook his head, wiggling a finger at her. “All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players, Trudie.” He stepped back, placing his hands on his hips.

  “Wow, you took my breath away. You really are something. I mean you’ve got fire and ice. You’ve got that WOW thing that I didn’t even know was there!”

  Trudie felt a rising rage. Her eyes locked on his. “Why didn’t you answer my texts?”

  Jon’s eyebrows lifted. “Why?”

  “Yes! Why!? You have to ask me why? Didn’t you know I was freaking out after last night? Are you really that heartless, stupid and selfish that you didn’t know I would need to hear from you after... ?” her voice trailed off, and her eyes misted over.

  She turned away, barely able to squeeze out the words. “You heartless little... shit!”

  Jon shrank and sighed with regret, while pocketing his hands. He scratched his nose, lifting a helpless hand. “Trudie... I came by the house to pick up Carly and Lynn. I thought you’d be there and we could talk about last night. But you were gone. The girls said you went to the high school.”

  His voice turned quiet and intimate. “Trudie, look at me.”

  “No.”

  “Please. Look at me.”

  “I’m crying, okay. I’m not going to look at you. I didn’t sleep much last night, my stomach’s in knots and I already look like hell.”

  The choir finished singing, and the place grew religiously quiet.

  “Okay, don’t look at me. The truth is, Trudie.” He paused, sighing heavily. He tried again. “The truth is, I wanted us to be alone together so we could talk about things. Hey, I was scared, okay? You scare me a little.”

  Trudie snapped a look at him. “What? I scare you?! That’s a laugh. You scare the hell out of everybody, including me.”

  He pulled his hands from his pockets and spread them wide. “You do scare me. You always did. Hell, I love you and you scare the hell out of me.”

  Trudie stared, fuming. “Don’t bullshit me, Jon. I’m in no mood for it.”

  “So help me God, I’m not. You do, in fact, scare the living daylights out of me because when I’m with you, I don’t know who the hell I am. I feel all tangled up in love.”

  Trudie looked away, seeking answers in the air all around her. She adjusted the strap of her purse. “I don’t even know what that means or what to say. I never do know what to say to you.”

  She fumbled into her coat for a tissue. She wiped her eyes.

  Jon heaved out a sigh. “Okay, here goes. Last night was the most special and memorable and wonderful night of all my nights. Truth be told, it ain’t gonna get any better than that unless you and I stay together. That was it! Boom, Bang, KaWhoosh! Love everywhere and we didn’t even really do anything. Bells, whistles, fireworks. Trudie Parks, Lady from Deer Lake, I love you like I’ve never loved nothing before and that scares the hell out of me, because I don’t know what that is. I’ve played the part of being in love a few times on the big screen, and in a couple of plays, but I have to tell you, I don’t think I was very good at it, because I never felt that real crazy, knock-you-on-your-ass love before last night.”

  Trudie stood, conflicted, suspicious and touched. Once again, she was speechless. She closed her eyes and massaged her forehead.

  “Therefore,” Jon said, finger raised toward the ceiling as if to make a proclamation, “I didn’t know how to answer your texts. How could I tell you what I feel in a text? How trivial and pedestrian is it to write about love in a friggin’ text. Maybe I send a text about love to Minnie Mouse or Miss Piggy, but not to you. To you it must be said face to face or up in a Ferris wheel or sailing under the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset. I was knocked silly by last night, Trudie. I felt foolish and hypnotized. And I wanted to run away. I still do want to run away. I’m scared. What the hell do I do with that kind of love?”

  Trudie opened her eyes and shook her head. “Jon... you are just plain nuts. Do you know that? How the hell do I know what you should do with it?”

  He nodded. “I have really blown a fuse.”

  Trudie stood erect and resolute. “Well, I don’t care what you feel or how crazy you are. You can’t leave town. Not now. You can run for the hills after the last show on Christmas Eve if you have to, but not until then.”

  Jon pursed his lips, slid his hand inside his shirt, shifted his hat sideways and thrust his chin out, giving an excellent impression of Napoleon. He spoke in a French accent.

  “I have conquered many lands and many women and yet, Mademoiselle Parks, you, yes you and only you, have conquered my martial heart. Will you, as they say in French, come with me to the boudoir, where we will drink Burgundy wine, eat greasy Bistro food and make love?”

  Trudie blotted her eyes, shaking her head in exasperation. “Will you please stop performing for one damned minute and just tell me you’ll stay and do the show, Jon? You’re driving me nuts!”

  He gave her a grand, sweeping bow. “After your superlative performance, at my expense, mind you, what else can I do? Because you have once again captured and, indeed, conquered, my hopelessly-in-love panting heart. Yes, I will stay and do the show and agree to do those friggin’ interviews just for you, because, Trudie Parks, I love you.”


  TWENTY-ONE

  Tuesday morning, the Deer Lake Auditorium was a buzzing hive of activity: singing, hammering, piano playing, sawing, shouting, line readings, crying and answering ringing phones. There was the smell of paint, coffee, bacon, turpentine, makeup and Cole Blackwell’s musty cologne.

  Six beefy security guards stood by all six entrances to the high school. Four more patrolled the parking lot. Two additional guards, with heroic faces and bodies, stood on either end of the high school front steps, next to blue saw horses and yellow CAUTION tape blocking the entrance. One very imposing security guard was assigned to stay with Jon Ketch at all times. Two cars from the county deputy’s office were parked in front of the high school with their blue dome lights quietly sweeping the area. All the cops and security were needed.

  Jon Ketch’s fans had descended on the town en masse, coming from all over the state and beyond, and they were trying to swarm the high school to catch a glimpse of him. The high school phone lines rang constantly, many from callers who’d just heard about the Christmas shows and wanted tickets. When they were told the performances were sold out, they demanded an additional show be added. When they were told there wouldn’t be additional shows, some callers hung up before learning about the DVD of the performance which would be available for sale by the start of the new year. Proceeds would help boost the scholarship fund.

  Mrs. Lyons paced the school and the auditorium like a general looking for any slight infraction. Whenever she peered out of a window and saw the surging masses of people surrounding the high school, she bitterly castigated herself for ever allowing this kind of thing to happen. How could she have been so negligent? She’d already received calls from every single member of the school board. All said they were “concerned.”

  It was inevitable that the Deer Lake Sheriff would pay the high school, and Jon Ketch himself, a visit. Sheriff Jake T. Mason arrived in a dark blue sedan with blue roof lights. He inched his car through the crowds, being waved through by security guards. He pulled up to the rear exit door, next to a little mountain of plowed snow, and switched off the engine. He emerged from his car, grabbed his belt and tugged up his pants, taking in a scene he’d never before witnessed—and never wanted to witness again. Swarms of people were being held back by yellow crime scene tape, saw horses and security cops. He’d seen it in the movies, but never in his town. He didn’t like it. It felt chaotic and unstable. Anything could happen when you have this many people together. And most of the crowd looked young and antsy.

  And all of this was playing out because a few alumni from the high school and a famous Hollywood actor, who’d grown up in Deer Lake, had some stupid idea about putting on a Christmas show for a retired teacher. How could something so simple turn into something so complicated?

  And then there was the issue of the fight at Rusty’s. Jake didn’t care that Big Frank had gotten his ass kicked, he was even happy about it, but he didn’t want a repeat performance from the actor. Another fight like that could set the whole town into riotous chaos. Copycats could make his Christmas Eve very ugly indeed.

  This was not a movie. It was not It’s a Wonderful Life. This was real, and Jake had to deal with it. He’d be up for re-election next year, and he liked his job. He’d been doing it for a long time, and nothing like this had ever happened before, something that could jeopardize his job. So, if he wasn’t prepared and very careful, this whole business could blow up in his face.

  He’d already called in deputy support from some of the surrounding counties, and more counties had offered their help. He might call them in too. He was taking no chances.

  Jake T. Mason had graduated from Deer Lake High School, 25 years before. He did not know any of the players in this Christmas show farce and he hadn’t taken drama from Mrs. Childs. He barely remembered her. He’d played football and baseball. He’d gone to Ohio State on an athletic scholarship. He lost it when a knee injury finished his football aspirations.

  Jake was broad and thick in the neck. He had a comfortable paunch, a lumpy face, no-nonsense dark eyes and a sallow complexion. Though he stooped a little, he maintained he was still over 6 feet. Dressed in a brown uniform, chocolate brown leather coat, black cowboy hat and black cowboy boots, he nodded at the security guard at the door and entered the school, wishing there was something he could do to stop the show and get Jon Ketch out of town. Before the actor left town, though, Jake wanted to meet him. He liked some of his movies, especially Killers Crossing, a gritty drama about a small town sheriff, Jon Ketch, who was caught in a web of murder, lies and corruption. Yeah, he liked Jon in that movie. He’d even bought the Blu-ray edition.

  Sheriff Mason hoped he’d get someone to snap some pictures of him and the actor together, so Jake could display them proudly on his office walls. If all went well on Christmas Eve, he’d be able to use those pictures during the next election, and that couldn’t hurt. It would also give him something to brag about at Joey’s Truck Stop out on Highway 11. Yeah, that would be nice: Sheriff Jake with the famous home town boy, Jon Ketch. Nothing wrong with that.

  Sheriff Mason strode down the hallowed halls he remembered so well, passing the glass trophy case where he paused to glimpse his old football team photo and championship trophy. He squared his shoulders, smiled, and lifted his proud chin.

  He moved on, hearing the echo of his heavy footsteps. Being in the school always brought back good memories: the games, the girls, the old glories. He hoped nothing would happen in the next two days to change all those good memories. He even whispered a Christmas prayer, asking for a little Christmas help.

  As he approached the auditorium, he heard voices—lovely voices—singing White Christmas. Now wasn’t that nice? As he reached for the center door handle to the auditorium, he began whistling the tune, just the slightest bit off key. It sounded fine to him, and it cheered him.

  Inside the auditorium, The Christmas Women were being yanked in all directions, answering questions, phone calls, texts and emails, racing about the auditorium to critique performers, staging, lights and sets. They were trying to cram weeks of work into one and a half days. Wednesday afternoon was Christmas Eve and the two performances would go ahead as planned, ready or not.

  Trudie had scheduled three interviews for Jon, letting him choose who would conduct those interviews. He and all three girls had sat down to come up with a list of pertinent content they wanted him to include in his answers.

  1. Yes, the performance was dedicated to their former drama teacher. It was the main reason they had all come together. Mrs. Childs was the focus.

  2. Yes, her health was improving.

  3. Yes, she’d had a strong influence in his life. She was his first acting teacher.

  4. Yes, he’d gotten in the fight at Rusty’s to protect his friends.

  5. No, no charges were filed by him or against him.

  6. No, he had no plans to write a movie script about the incident.

  7. Yes, he’d loved growing up in Deer Lake.

  8. Yes, Mrs. Lyons had been invaluable and helpful during the entire undertaking.

  9. No, he was not in love with his old high school sweetheart. (Trudie insisted on this.)

  10. Yes, he was playing Ebenezer Scrooge in the play and he was going to be performing in the Rockettes’ style kicking routine along with The Christmas Women.

  Whether Jon actually kept to the scripted answers was anyone’s guess. Trudie was sure he wouldn’t. He never had, so why would he change now?

  Oscar worked feverishly on the Santa Claus-at-home set, complete with a giant Christmas wreath stage center, a fireplace and mantel, stockings and a rocking chair. Mary Ann would play Mrs. Claus, reading the classic poem, ‘Twas the Night before Christmas, while rocking and knitting a sweater.

  Oscar was also overseeing construction of the set for A Christmas Carol, which was being built by three high school seniors and two alumni. They were all enthusiastic about the project, despite the constraints on time, materials and m
oney. The set would consist of various pieces of old office furniture, the fireplace from the Santa Claus-at-home set, a large multi-framed window with frosted panes, and a blue backdrop that would serve as a screen where images could be projected: old Victorian England and its darkly lit streets, and a night sky with gleaming stars and ghosts swirling and diving, their ugly faces contorted with grief. It would also project a foggy graveyard when The Ghost of Christmas Future points Scrooge to his gravestone.

  Cole Blackwell was to play the Ghost of Christmas Future, since everyone knew he was a bad actor and his character spoke no lines. At 6 feet 6 inches tall, wearing 2-inch boots and a long black hood and robe, he would tower over the diminutive, withered and stooped Jon Ketch, playing Scrooge. Jon was delighted by the dramatic and visual possibilities of their scenes together.

  By late morning, Trudie, Kristen and Mary Ann finally got to rehearse with Ray and the 16-piece alumni and high school orchestra. While they were on stage singing and practicing their dance steps, they were all aware of Jon, speaking with Sheriff Mason in the back of the auditorium. They were distracted, making mistakes. Ray finally lost his patience, threw up his hands and shouted.

  “What is the matter with you three! For crying out loud, you’re missing notes and steps all over the place. Can you please concentrate! You look awful. You’re going to embarrass me, the rest of the cast and Mrs. Childs. Don’t forget, this will be filmed and burned on DVD, and we will probably be on the nightly news, all over the state of Ohio.”

  Kristen threw her hands to her hips. “Okay, okay. Bitch, bitch, bitch. Give us a break. We’re 20 years older and we’re wondering if the Sheriff is going to haul Jon off to jail.”